


Come to Rescue

by PaulaMcG



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: 1978, 1979, Activism, Carnival Against the Nazis, Cold, Coming Out, Friendship, Gift Giving, Love, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Poverty, Pre-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Singing, Six-Year-Old Character, Student and Teacher Remus Lupin, Tom Robinson Band, Unexpected Visitors, Werewolf Remus Lupin, Winter of Discontent, hunger, pub food, rating for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: In the winter of ‘79 Remus is rescued from a tower of ice.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 3





	Come to Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Remus and his friends will never help me make any money.  
> In all my fanfiction I follow only the canon of Rowling's first five novels, and my Marauders left Hogwarts in summer 1976.

_Stay home. Coming with surprise._ His sloppy handwriting, his enthusiasm, his coming – all this always makes me feel warm inside. But now only in my heart, not inside this room, where I’d rather not tarry.

It was a mistake to hurry and read the note before pulling the window closed. A freezing draft bites my fingers – as does his owl, to whom I have nothing to offer. When hearing the pecking on the pane – while not seeing the familiar, welcome figure yet, through the layer of frost – I had just decided that I was healthy enough to Apparate to Oxford. There’s no Dark Creature lecture today, but fortunately I’ve been allowed to start courses in Latin and French, so I’ve got excuses to spend the day in my Magical College’s halls, which are heated by roaring fires.

Swiftly caressing the owl’s feathers, I let it fly away without a reply. With the blanket back tightly wrapped around myself, I start pacing between my mattress and piles of College library books. I hope he’s quick. This room’s even worse than the first one I rented, and this winter is worse, too, the coldest in sixteen years, they say.

This is a part of the dystopia – as he explained it – in that paradoxically nostalgic song The Winter of ‘79, which he started hollering almost a year ago – yes, back in ‘78 – together with: freedom to live your own life, freedom... He’s been so impatient about getting to fight as an Auror, at least since he got halfway in his training. The war against the Dark Lord still doesn’t need us – only Galleons, and that’s why they tax scholarships and raise fines, including the fine for misleading an employer to hire you when you’re not fully human. Since when we were younger than fifteen we’ve talked about fighting for equality of all sentient creatures, and now we want to do it here out in the real world. And last spring he discovered what was going on in Muggle Britain: the oppression of various minorities, and young people rising against it – such a fight to join! And such increasing unemployment that I couldn’t find work there either. That’s when I had to move to this cheaper room. And now with the strikes and this weather, all I can do is fight to survive. But he’s still looking forward to this coming true in the wizard world, too: Yes, a few of us fought/ And a few of us died/ In the winter of '79.

Last night’s blizzard seems to be over, but the temperature must have got ever lower – outside and in here. I soon regret having not replied, suggesting that we meet in the nearest pub. Now I should conjure some furniture, might manage something to last for a short visit even though I’m hardly at my charming best.

I’ve just got my wand out when I hear him in the stairwell outside my flimsy door. No knocking, just one of our whistled signals: goldfinch’s call Tickelit – with the stress at the end – which means exciting news. Yes! With sudden heat in my heart, I use the wand to undo my sealing charm, now not minding that he’ll see the room in its full – or rather bare – misery.

I feel my smile widening as I step to the threshold to meet him. He’s wearing a red and yellow striped bobble hat, drawn down almost to the graceful lines of his eyebrows, and his cheeks are ruddy from the cold wind and the climb, which has made him breathless, too. I can barely resist kissing him immediately, but I do stand back to let him in first since I know that’s what he wishes.

As he’s got the habit of commenting on any change in my furnishings, I expect him to stride further and scan the room. But now he’s just standing at the door, panting, and his grin fades for a moment while he’s staring at me. I’m afraid he finds me looking different from last time we met, a few days ago. Or perhaps it’s just that I’m fully dressed, as if impatient to go out: actually wearing all my clothes, the corduroy jacket over the robes, and the long knit scarf wound around my neck.

He bites his lip, then grins again. “Wait!”

When he glances back towards the stairs, I realise he’s waiting for someone who’s climbing up more slowly. Perhaps because of this companion he didn’t Apparate up. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable, abashed: what does he think he’s doing? I’ve let the blanket fall to the floor, and I consider whether I have time to arrange it properly on the mattress.

And now I can see: another pair of grey eyes staring at me – at the level of his elbow. It’s a child; he’s brought a child with him! Or a little lady.

She comes from behind his back, takes off a furry glove when walking the couple of steps to me, and reaches out her hand to shake mine. “Hello,” she says.

“This is Nymph...”

“Miss Tonks,” she introduces herself. “You must be Remus. But uncle Sirius said you live in a big house with a lot of sheep.” Pushing back the fur-lined hood of her cloak, she looks up at me from under her pink fringe, demanding an explanation.

“I used to. Now I live alone here – where you’d better keep your hood and mittens on. But this was made of wool from my father’s sheep.” I pick up the blanket, considering whether to offer it to her, then spread it over the mattress. “Please sit down, Miss Tonks.”

But she rushes to the window, and making use of piles of books, clambers up to the sill. As she exclaims, enchanted, I manage to see it, too: the edges of the ice are lit up by the sun with warm yellow glow, as if into fiery lace.

She presses her palms – bare, despite my advice – and nose on the ice for a moment, then turns to me and whispers, “You live in a tower of ice… maybe prisoner?”

“Maybe. And a gallant maiden has come to rescue me.” It’s easy to smile to her, even as I’m standing there shivering, with my arms folded, hands tucked into armpits. 

She laughs, delighted. “I like you.” Her cute small nose changes shape: sharpens into a peak, then flattens down again.

It’s really a lovely little surprise to be finally introduced to Sirius’s favourite cousin’s daughter, who’s got this rare, fascinating gift of change.

I’ve quite neglected him, and only now do I notice that he’s flopped down onto the blanket. His self-satisfied grin suddenly irritates me, and partly out of spite I go to sit down right next to him, lean against him without waiting for a response, any gesture inviting me to such intimacy – in the child’s presence, too. I just want to crudely take some of the heat of his body which I so direly need.

I also wave my wand to renew the flames I’ve lit in a tin can next to the mattress – the only way of heating in this room without fireplace or Muggle heating system. This simple trick, too, amuses Nymphadora.

“I like you,” she repeats. “You can teach me.”

Before I manage to comprehend whether she can suddenly want to learn the flame charm, Sirius responds. “Great. See, this is the surprise: I got a job for you. I’ve brought a student for you.”

“She… Miss Tonks is hardly a student.” Baffled, I glance at her, try to remain polite, and fail. “She can’t pay me. She’s… what: five or six years old!”

“I’m six years and almost six months.” Her nose stands up perkier.

“And her mother will pay to you for teaching her French.”

“Now, don’t try to fool me!” This must be a trick to make me accept coin which is in reality from him. “Miss Tonks, could you please go...”

“To another room?” Poised, she feigns indifference and shows she’s ready to jump down from the window sill.

Of course, there’s no other room, and I can’t shut her out in the stairwell so as to argue with Sirius. “No, I’m sorry.” I sigh.

“It was actually James’s idea – but it is a good one, really.” He doesn’t meet my gaze, and I wonder if he’ll soon give up trying to convince me. Then I realise he’s looking for something in the large pocket of his bulky winter jacket. “And this one was mine.”

Now his tantalising eyes are on me, and he places his closed fist on my thigh. Besides the warmth of his skin, I can feel the tingling of magic, the hidden weight of a larger object. He’s pulled out his wand, too, and effortlessly, silently he breaks the Shrinking Charm.

Balanced between my lap and his, there’s an elegant, brown leather briefcase. No, he can’t be giving this to me as a present, another too expensive one… Yes, that’s just like him, and there’s no other explanation. There can’t be just a surprise inside: the case must be empty; otherwise he couldn’t have used the charm. 

“You like it?” He still sounds more excited than worried that I might not find this idea and gift of his perfect, exactly what I’ve needed.

I caress the smooth leather, then slide my hand to stroke his, which is spread on a corner of the case. “Oh, Sirius!” is all I manage. “It’s beautiful. It’s too much.” Of course it is. With the money he spent on it, I’d have payed the rent for a warm room for months. 

When he starts moving his hand away, I fear he’s understood. But as I venture a look up, his face is still shining of delight. And the little nymph’s approached us without my noticing: curious, no doubt, and appreciative of all things sheen. Where he’s removed his hand from under mine, I can feel something less smooth – and at the same time her fingers, now colder than mine, pulling my hand aside. There is, indeed, something glistening.

She reads aloud – stammering only a little – the words stamped on the leather in golden letters: _Professor R. J. Lupin._

And Sirius laughs, perhaps at my bewildered stare. “See, she can read, she’s ready for lessons of French, and now you are a real professor!” In his merriment he finally embraces me in a half hug: with his arm across my back he rubs my upper arm, shakes me.

It’s definitely too much. I can’t help loving what he’s doing for me, even though… Is it all a joke? “You must confess Andromeda knows nothing about this.”

“No. She knows… not nothing, I mean.” He’s getting mixed up with his words – but not out of embarrassment, out of being caught, I realise. He’s so happy that he can’t sit still but bounces onto his knees, places his hands on my shoulders – where the dog has the habit of lifting front paws, when excited. “She’s made the plans together with us. Here’s a proof: she wouldn’t let me take Nymphadora out in this weather without a good reason.”

“But it didn’t make any sense to bring miss Tonks here.” I look away from him, at the tin can. “This is no fitting place for lessons.”

“You can as well give the lessons at her home. Andromeda’s fine with that, you’ll see when we get there. It’s actually more practical for her that you come there every time.”

“I haven’t said I agree to give any lessons.” I have to try and object more firmly.

“Please, Professor Remus!” She’s been holding my hand all the time, and now she’s pulling it. “Let’s go. I’m taking you home. You said it: I came to rescue you from the ice tower.”

Yes, the two of us have said it – in our make-believe play – more truthfully than Sirius. The reason for their suggestion, and the reason why I’m tempted to agree. 

“Yes! Start packing the case!” Sirius opens the briefcase on the mattress. “Where’s your French book?”

I let Nymphadora help me stand up, and soon I find myself choosing books with her.

“Take also anything else you might need!” Sirius is striding around the room.

When placing French for Beginners, a dictionary, and Amazanthine Tales in the case, I notice that Sirius has packed some parchment with my latest notes for Dark Creatures and Latin, too – and hidden underneath it my toothbrush and razor. I refrain from protesting, just pretend I haven’t seen.

“Ready? Oh...” There’s still something for me in his pocket. “My new hat’s from Lily, and she’s knitted one for you, too.”

Mine’s similar to his, I’ve got just enough time to see before he pulls it deep over my ears and forehead. And that’s when I finally steal a kiss, as Nymphadora’s focused on closing the case.

It must be partly thanks to the woolen bobble hat that on the street I feel less cold than in my room. We’re also walking briskly, Nymphadora between Sirius and me, holding hands with both of us and skipping, rather. I have to ask her to wait for a moment, as I want to pull the jumper cuffs properly over my hands. She notices, doesn’t say anything, but as we walk on, she reaches up to put her hand, together with mine, into my jacket pocket. The fingers of the hand carrying the briefcase grow numb, and the case makes me feel a bit silly – but proud, too, albeit not prouder than this company makes me. Out here on the snowy pavement and in freezing wind, I’m already rescued.

“Is it still long?” she asks, stopping near a pub door, which has just opened for a moment, to let out a couple of customers and the tantalising scent of roast chicken.

“We’re about half way,” I say.

“You know there’s no other way. Can’t Apparate with you,” Sirius explains. “We must walk back to that store we came through.”

“That’s the nearest place with a Floo Network connection,” I add.

And now he gets another idea – or an opportunity to carry out a plan of his. “But we can stop here for a lunch break. It’s my treat!”

Of course, whose else could it be? Despite the bitterness in this thought, I find it hard to protest for the sake of my pride.

“I don’t know. I’m not...” is my feeble response.

“Come on! I bet the last time you ate anything was yesterday.”

I’d win that bet: it was on the day before. But I hope Nymphadora’ll help me gain this meal without need for either confessions or feigned refusals.

She meets my expectations. “Oh, I’ve never been to a Muggle pub before. Let’s go in!”

“They might not let a child in.” I’ve found an argument, and it makes me worried.

“They will if we order meals for all of us.” Sirius opens the door for the lady to skip in first. 

She looks like a princess, and with his charm combined with that, they’ve soon seduced the barman. As they discuss the options with him, Nymphadora next to me and Sirius opposite, I’m just sitting back, probably with a silly-looking smile, getting used to the blissful warmth.

When I register someone asking what I’d prefer, I reply as if instinctively, “Chicken.”

“Chicken in a basket, yes!” Sirius sounds overjoyed, perhaps because for once I’ve offered no more objections. “That’s fun! You’ll love that, Nymphadora. We’re all taking that.”

Waiting for the food, I’m getting anxious, queasy. I can feel my pulse quickening. As if I’d spent the rest of my strength on the walk, I can’t concentrate on my companions or, I’m afraid, control my reactions to them. To hide this I still manage to resort to bending down, to focusing on the briefcase I’ve placed beside my chair. I take out the French book, and pretend to read, frowning. Perhaps they’ll think I’m worried about how to plan the lessons. A pint glass has appeared next to my book, and I realise Sirius has been to the bar and got out drinks. He says something about ginger beer, ginger ale, no alcohol. I take a slow swig, looking at my book, feigning absent-mindedness but eager to savour the warm taste.

Too late I realise that one of us could have suggested a toast – and that, in fact, Sirius must have done it. “Sorry.” I raise my eyes to him, then turn to Nymphadora with a sheepish smile.

As if she understood that I fear she won’t like this absent-minded, even rude professor, she pats my hand reassuringly. When soon there’s a wicker basket in front of me, filled to the top with greasy pieces of chicken on a bed of chips, I actually want to revel in the sight and the scent for a moment. 

And I manage to stop and raise my pint. “To the gallant maiden!”

I do remember that it’s better for my aching stomach that I eat slowly, and they seem to tuck in quite as ravenously as I do. Now we all exchange more smiles than words.

While chewing I finally dare feast my eyes on Sirius’s face. I can discern no expression of pity when he looks back at me, just pure joy – as if he were simply enjoying the chicken, albeit mine as well as his. Now I can’t resist searching for his foot with mine under the table. And suddenly the easy sing-along melody fills my mind and I start softly, “Sing if you’re glad...”, then considerately switch to humming for the rest of the refrain.

I’m already quite calm, almost sleepy. Through the somnolent contentment I’m struck by the feeling that I haven’t truly hidden and haven’t needed to hide anything, after all.

In the comfortable armchair by Andromeda’s fireplace I try to stifle a yawn, though. The hot chocolate she offered to all three of us, to drive away the chill of the latter half of our walk, has completed the fulfillment of my needs. I’ve removed some more layers of clothing than in the pub and even partly rolled up the sleeves of my faded green jumper so as to hide the frayed cuffs.

“Take a nap while she does!” Despite her heavy-lidded eyes Andromeda looks far from drowsy herself. She winks. “Too bad Sirius couldn’t stay and have a little lie-down in the guest room, too.”

Nymphadora’s sitting on the hearthrug, at my feet, leafing through the story book from my childhood, and rubbing her eyes. Sirius, having quickly gulped down his chocolate, soon excused himself, referred to a Concealment and Disguise lecture, and wanted to Disapparate immediately. Fortunately Andromeda asked him to first take the mugs to the kitchen, and I hurried to help him. In there I pushed him against the draining board, so as to thank him properly for the rescue, and I still revel in the lingering taste of him. But I thought it was now time to get to work. 

“What about the lesson?” I ask, perplexed again.

By now, I’ve become convinced that my arrival wasn’t a complete surprise to Andromeda, and that she had, indeed, decided she wanted me to teach French to her little daughter.

“You can have it in the late afternoon, or evening. I hope you won’t mind staying with Dora while Ted and I attend a meeting. In fact, I have to confess...” She tilts her head, leans towards me – and that’s when she notices that Nymphadora’s curled up, with the open book as her pillow. “Oh, if you take her to lie down on her bed now, she’ll fall asleep while you’re reading the first page of a story.” 

Andromeda’s right: her daughter dozes off when I’ve hardly reached that part of the frame story where the mother amazanthine starts trying to persuade an owl to help brood her eggs.

Having tiptoed out of Nymphadora’s room, I find Andromeda waiting in the corridor. She leads me to another small but beautiful room: besides a bed, there are bookshelves and a fireplace – and my briefcase placed on a desk. Settling on the chair next to the desk, she gestures towards the bed, and I sit down, too – a bit nervous, expecting to hear the confession she postponed.

“You’ve got such a wonderful child,” I say.

Andromeda smiles. “She can be quite a handful, too. I’m glad she still takes naps. And that the two of you get along so well.”

While obviously considering how to proceed, she fingers the letters stamped on the briefcase, and I feel I’m blushing.

“That wasn’t my idea. Sirius...”

“I know. He told me about his idea, said that your other friends, too, participated in the gift. He was so excited. But what I need to discuss is the services I want to buy from you.”

That doesn’t sound too bad. Typical of Sirius to forget to mention other people’s contributions, especially Peter’s. And it seems she genuinely needs something worth paying for. “Yes?”

“I hope it’s not too close to babysitting for your liking. Since I heard you now study French, too, I’ve thought it’s an opportunity for Dora to focus on learning something challenging. On the other hand, I’d need her teacher to stay here with her even overnight, as Ted and I are away a lot, so busy these days.”

I look aside, unwilling to meet her gaze. It is charity, after all, planned first by Sirius – no, as he said: by James, who understands better what I need. And it’s worse than what I feared: they’re giving me not just money but a warm place to stay. “I don’t think I can...”

“I’ve hoped you could stay, perhaps a few weeks – of course, Apparate from here to Oxford for your lectures. I admit that I decided to ask for the services when I heard there was someone who needed what I could offer as compensation. When we don’t deny our needs, we can help each other.”

She sounds so reasonable that suddenly I see myself as immature in my proud fight for independence. Is there anything I could say – giving up or refusing to – that could restore any dignity? She’s waiting for my response.

But now she starts tapping a frantic rhythm on her thigh, then sings, “We ain’t gonna take it no more...”

After a little embarrassed cough she says, “Sorry. I tend to get impatient easily. And that song’s just been in my head. You must know it, too. Remember how the lyrics start?”

What a coincidence! “Actually, I do. Prejudice poison/ polluting this land.” I frown.

“Didn’t you know it was me who introduced that band to Sirius, gave him their first single and three songs on a tape I made? Also told him about the Carnival last spring: the march from Trafalgar Square and the concert at Victoria Park. I think you all came.”

“Yes.” That memory makes me smile. All that heat out on the street. On that last day of April – a month which had still brought sharp frost and showers of snow – definitely filled with hope for a change and for a long hot summer.

Back then I was dizzy from all the noise of whistles, and the slogans – we are all equal, and fight for our rights, and in one banner even: queer Jew boy seeks a better world – and the strain of the long walk in the drizzle, and then the sun breaking out as we streamed to the park... Pressed tight against strangers as well as each other in the throbbing, heaving crowd, we tried to squirm closer to the stage, led by ecstatic Sirius, who shouted into my ear that the best band should be on already – that this one should not have continued. Peter, while looking a bit uncomfortable, was proud to know the answer – the Clash, fitting name, right? – when James, struggling to keep his arms around pogoing Lily, asked what this one was.

Andromeda’s just kept grinning back for a while, but now she starts explaining, “We got involved with RAR and ANL, the organisers, you know, through Ted’s family. His father’s active in the Union; Ted’s from working class, and when we married we had very little, just got this house thanks to Alphard’s will... well, anyway… Ted’s younger sister is in a punk band and in a relationship with an immigrant girl.”

She slaps her thigh, clearly about to lose patience with herself. “What I needed to say’s that Ted and I, we’re busy in the struggle against our blood purist bigots and others as bad in Muggle Britain. That’s what those meetings are about, too: joining forces to combat all prejudice, intolerance and racism – to fight for a fairer world. Fairer – for fairies, too, yes.” She smiles and winks again. “That’s what we assure to Dora, as she asks when we explain why we must go out.”

“I suppose… that you suppose she means sentient fairies – in case your movement in the magical world is against true racism, too, not just our class issues. In case it supports rights for others than full humans. Or perhaps you suppose she means just gays.”

“I mean we want equality also for… I think this is in Tom Robinson’s lyrics, too: the likes of you.”

I don’t know what to say: don’t know for sure what we’re talking about, and doubt I should make the topic clearer with my response. I just struggle to breathe calmly. 

Her voice is soft, gentle. “I believe you, too, must have the right to define who you are, and the chance to live openly as yourself.”

I still don’t know how much she knows or guesses about what I am.

I try to form the phrase cautiously. “Some people aren’t ready to do it.”

“I know. Sirius...”

Yes, let’s talk about fairies. I nod. But is it right I resort to talking about someone else? 

“I should try to live up to my principles, but I guess…” She hesitates. “There’s no need to hide from you how I define… or rather how I interpret Sirius – how I see him now. Because he obviously allows you to see him in the same way.”

“Yes. But he doesn’t allow any other people – or even himself to see it.”

“When the world is fairer, more people will dare accept themselves and live openly.”

“Tom Robinson must be the right example for him.” While saying this, I realise that this may have been a part of the reason why she recommended this band to him: she wants to help her young, confused cousin.

“Tom Robinson is incredibly brave. We can’t expect just anyone to come out in the way he’s done. But he’d certainly encourage Sirius to come out to himself, at least. We’ve got others to fight; we should not fight against ourselves. Sirius must agree with this – as that speaker at Victoria Park put it, ‘This is a carnival against the fucking Nazis!’”

I feel suddenly relaxed, ready to relive and share a moment I’ve cherished. “You know, when they started that song that’s not on the single or on the tape he’d got… ‘I don’t know this one,’ he said. I could rather read it on his lips. And then he hollered in my ear, ‘Great lyrics!’ And he tried to sing along immediately as the refrain began. When he figured out what it was about – you should have seen his face!”

“And did he sing on?” She’s anxious to hear more.

“He did. Just glanced around first to see all these people, strangers as well as his friends singing along – just not Peter, but he ignores Peter – and he did sing. He even hugged me then – and James, too, at the same time.” 

Andromeda’s smile’s widened, and she reaches her hands towards me, as if she felt like hugging me. Instead, she taps the rhythm, and we sing, “Sing if you’re glad to be gay/ Sing if you’re happy that way, hey/ Sing if you’re glad to be gay/ Sing if you’re happy that way/ Sing if you’re glad to be gay/ Sing if you’re happy that way, hey/ Sing if you’re glad to be gay/ Sing if you’re happy this way.”

“But now you’ll be glad to finally have your nap,” she says abruptly, standing up.

“Well, I don’t deny I’m tired.” 

“There are sheets for you in this bed – for the case you agree to stay. But now you don’t need to take the time to undress; you can just lie down on the bedspread. Fold back the other half of it to cover yourself.”

I’m already lying down. “That’s not necessary. It’s almost hot in here. Lovely. Thank you.”

But she’s pulling the bedspread over me, up to my elbow. “You’ll feel more secure in this way, sleep better.”

Before straightening up to stride to the door, she pats my wrist. Touches my bare skin. Just where, when hiding my cuffs, I must have exposed some scars.

Did she do it on purpose, in order to show me she’d paid attention to the scars? She’s now closed the door behind her, still smiling tenderly. But my heart’s beating faster. 

Of course, she has the right to know. When she’s about to trust me with her child, even though I’d take care not to be here for the full moon… When she’s offering all this help I need, she deserves to know as much as my closest friends. There’s still the clause in my contract with the Oxford beastiologists: my obligation to conceal what I am. But I’ve done that before: let people just figure it out when I want them to. Or when it’s the right thing to do.

I’ve curled up in my usual position for sleep, with hands between my thighs – unnecessarily, I realise. Tensed as I am, I’ll manage to guide my body to relaxation – having practised this way to ease the transformation pain.

Now my body’s fully resting in this amazing warmth. I close my eyes. I wish to fall asleep while someone’s telling me a fairy tale I can believe in, and reaching its happy end. But for me there is only this story of our years where I’ve got a small, precarious role.

Perhaps I dare tell her. There is even a chance – my only chance – for dignity in the shame of what I am. In this unfair world, at least, I can’t accept myself – and I doubt I’ll ever be ready to do it. But if she still wants me after I’ve told her, I can stay rescued for a while, perhaps surviving the winter of ‘79.

**Author's Note:**

> The Winter of ‘79, Power in the Darkness, Long Hot Summer, and Ain’t Gonna Take It are songs on the debut studio album by Tom Robinson Band, titled Power in the Darkness, released in May 1978. (Sing If You’re) Glad to Be Gay is a song by Tom Robinson which the band performed e.g. at the Carnival Against the Nazis at Victoria Park on the 30th of April 1978.


End file.
